Eight years after inching out of the closet and five after coming out in earnest, this homosexual is still trying to wrap his brain around the whole phenomenon of gay Pride festivals. I have attended four parades, three festivals and one wretched circuit party — all linked to Pride weekends — and while I think I got the gist of it early on, now I'm not so sure of the connection between its idealism and ultimate execution. This was definitely this case during Las Vegas Pride this weekend.

Though Pride events were happening throughout last week, I kicked off my own participation, loosely put, with the downtown parade Fri., May 11. I don't know why I still attend the parade beyond some illogical sense of obligation. The only parade I ever enjoyed as a kid was Disneyland's Main Street Electrical Parade (which, come to think of it, was in its own way both proud and gay). But there I was, positioned on Fourth Street and looking for the traditional parade leaders, the Dykes on Bikes, to get this shit started because the sooner the proceedings were over with, the sooner I could play pinball at the Pinball Hall of Fame.

The Dykes did begin the parade in a timely fashion, God bless them, and what followed was a procession of LGBT community businesses, organization and personalities (like La Cage's female impersonator host Frank Marino, who couldn't even be bothered to stick his otherwise overexposed face out of the tastelessly customized Volkswagen as he passed our block), their trucks covered with mini-billboards and their passengers often hopping out to distribute swag to us onlookers. I was reminded what clubs and bars to visit, what "gay-friendly" banks and car dealerships to patronize, and what other Western regional cities' Pride celebrations I could attend later in the year. It felt like the gay community's big advertising pitch to itself. Pride parade, or homo promo? Either way, it got boring pretty quick, and not even Krave's hired porn marchers or Hot Rods' stripper eyecandy could liven up the increasingly sleepy crowd.

After all that banality — and a much needed pinball break — I met a pal over at Piranha-slash-8 1/2 nightclub-slash-ultralounge, which wasn't hosting the official party that night but was close by. I'm a little cold on 8 1/2 for a few different reasons, but Friday's bash was easily the best I've ever attended at the almost-year-old venue. It didn't feel any more packed than it usually is on a Thursday or Friday night, yet the vibe certainly felt warmer and more festive than I've experienced on previous visits. Still, not a whole lot about it that seemed to scream "pride," per se. It's not like the crowd looked anymore liberated or celebratory than usual. It was merely a place to let loose after the parade.

I passed on May 12's all-day festival at Clark County Amphitheater largely because, though not hungover, I felt like hell Saturday. It wasn't until midnight that I finally left the house, Empire Ballroom's Pride Ball being my destination. For an event so widely advertised and pushed by its organizer, Sin City Q Socials, it was a shock to see the place barely half-full. Then again, with admission wristbands at a steep $60 and $120, maybe not. (Some friends of mine reported a handout of free wristbands at the festival.) The plan was to hang out until the venue's other event that night, "Late Night Empire," but after a less-than-exciting showing by DJ Hex Hector and my friend nearly being thrown out because, of all things, he took off his shirt, we defected to Krave down the street. Now, I've been to Krave numerous times and for some of its biggest parties, but never have I seen it as crowded as I did that night. That location has always been cursed, whether as a jazz club or an after-hours dance spot, but it clearly has found an alluring tenant in Krave.

However, I still wasn't feeling the Pride vibe. What was I expecting? I guess it would have been nice if someone — an emcee, a community leader, even someone from the dubiously effective Human Rights Campaign — got onstage and said something halfway galvanizing to put Pride in perspective. (I'm guessing if this happened anywhere, it was at the festival — probably signaling most attendees to groan, get up and buy a rainbow tchotsky at the vendor booths. But I'd like to dare someone to make it happen at a nightclub.) Even as gays remain second-class citizens in this country, we also take things like Pride parties for granted. A generation ago, it could have been considered dangerous to organize or attend such parties and parades if you were outside San Francisco, Miami, Los Angeles and New York. I get the feeling most of the queer community forgets that even during the events that ought to be reminding us of it.

I bet if you had asked the younger revelers at 8 1/2, Krave, Empire or the parade what prompted the Stonewall riots, or who Harvey Milk was, or even what president signed the Defense of Marriage Act into law (hint: not a Republican), most of them wouldn't know. But, they know their lubrication and underwear brand names, their $200 jeans and $300 sunglasses designers, their high-traffic cruising and gay porn websites — and not just because those entities are splashed all over the party fliers and banners inside the clubs, or bombard them on Gay.com, or even commission a float for Pride parades.

I'm not pointing out anything new, and I realize how important the "celebration" part of "Pride Celebration" is, but this was the first year I genuinely agreed with those weary of the hyper-sponsorship — and ultimate co-opting — of Pride, which, sadly, has lost its sense of purpose. And I'm certainly not counting on Ginch Gonch briefs or Dolce and Gabbana to bring it back.